


a presumption that once our eyes watered

by idonthaveyourappetite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, From both of them, Hannibal Loves Will, Here there be angst, M/M, Mild D/s, Rough Sex, Will Loves Hannibal, Will and Hannibal [kind of] come to terms with their feelings, Will and Hannibal have an argument/discussion/therapy session during sex, Will hates Hannibal, and general nastiness, that kind of results in sexual humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idonthaveyourappetite/pseuds/idonthaveyourappetite
Summary: It’s a difficult argument to have, let alone win, when Hannibal is inside him. (another drabble, another teeny tiny ficlet)





	

"When you hurt me it’s justified. When I hurt you it’s further proof I am a monster. You use me to fulfill your darkest urges and to absolve yourself after, when in the night you are visited by guilt and shame.” 

It’s a difficult argument to have, let alone win, when Hannibal is inside him. He’s barely prepared, just enough to not cause physical damage—because that’s how Hannibal likes him, he sneers to himself, broken but not beyond repair. And in his infinite charity, Hannibal will take it upon himself to fix it, fix  _him_ , hold him afterwards as he clings and cries and wordlessly begs for affection and reassurance. It’s nothing new, the twisted way Hannibal cares for him. But there’s a shame to the intimacy of it all that splits him open, burns and bruises even worse than the impossible pain of penetration; the enjoyment he finds in Hannibal’s affection hurts him, hurts him more than Hannibal is now.   


He digs his nails into Hannibal’s chest, making sure to scrape them over the fading lines he’s etched there with his hunting knife, and Hannibal hisses in half-pain, half-satisfaction. 

“Do you enjoy hurting me, Will?”

“Yes.” Will bares his teeth in a snarl. “You fucking deserve it.”

He means it, too, spits the words with savage conviction. But what he doesn’t say is how much he enjoys the tenderness between them, tenderness he can only bring himself to accept when it results from violence.

The slap is more shocking than painful but it’s somehow more of an affront than anything Hannibal has ever done to him. He returns the insult the only way he can, by spitting in Hannibal’s face. It could be a death sentence. For anyone else it would be. Hannibal’s eyes flash and then go flat and terrifying, chips of obsidian. All malice. He wipes his face, never breaking his rhythm, and then strikes Will again, another vicious backhand. 

“And you enjoy when I hurt you. Your actions are proof enough of that. Tell me again how much you like it.”

Will's eyes are prickling with tears when he glares up at Hannibal, grits out, “I  _like_  it.”

“Good boy,” Hannibal purrs mockingly into his ear, and Will feels defeat, heavy and leaden, wash over him. When next Hannibal speaks, he wants to cry. “And again."

The humiliation is unbearable now, his cheeks hot and red with shame, and it’s worse even than the pain which is considerable. “Fuck—enough—please—"

“I didn’t ask for begging. Get control of yourself.” Hannibal’s voice is cold and there’s a viciousness to his command that makes Will’s eyes brim with tears and his lower lip tremble even as rage surges through his bloodstream.  _I hate you, I fucking despise you._ Hannibal reads it in his face and snaps his hips forward, punishing and deliberate, and Will bites his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from screaming. 

“I like it--I fucking  _love_ it. Are you satisfied, you sick bastard?” He can’t keep the tears out of his voice. He  _does_ , he loves it and he hates himself for it and he hates  _Hannibal_ for it, hates what this man can do to him—what he allows this man to do. He wants Hannibal to kiss him and praise him and stroke his hair and  _yes, keep going, keep hurting me—_  


“Ask me for more.”

He’s regretting it now, tilting with the devil when the devil has made a home inside him; has clawed his way in and curled up there, not entirely unwelcome. 

“More—Hannibal—"

“Open your eyes and look at me, Will. And try again.”

“No. I don’t want to fucking look at you. Ah—“ he cries out at a particularly vicious thrust. “You—you make me sick.” 

Hannibal is hurt by that.

“I see.”

“What are you going to do about it? There is nothing—nothing I have left that you can take from me.” He spits the next words, matching Hannibal’s cool disappointment with venom. “You made sure of that.” 

Hannibal stills, bringing a hand to his throat and squeezing slightly. “You speak as if the choice was entirely mine. As if you share no responsibility for our current situation.” His voice is measured and disapproving, but Will knows better; hears the buried notes of hurt and sadness and they spur him on. 

“Go ahead, then. Punish me. Destroy me.” He’s wild and reckless, he doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore. He just knows that it hurts, it hurts so  _much_ and anything is better than this. He’s begging for it now, begging for anything to draw his focus, begging for pain because pain makes it easier, begging for Hannibal to take all pretense at choice or control from him. His cruelty is the last barrier between them.  _Make me hate you. Give me something, Hannibal, please._  


“I can’t.” Hannibal’s voice is soft and very sad.  _No—no, you’re not human, you’re not supposed to be human, you’re not supposed to care—_  


Hannibal slows, angling his hips up, his movements becoming sensuous. It’s good, it’s so impossibly good and it’s not fair—Will whines in pleasure as Hannibal hits that spot inside him over and over but  _gently_ and that somehow makes it worse _—_ and Hannibal murmurs, “I love you,” and that, that more than anything brings tears to his eyes. He shakes his head frantically.  _Stop it, stop it, please._  


“I love your sweetness and your savagery, I love your stubbornness. I love how you never make anything easy. My precious, beautiful boy.” Hannibal’s voice is low and soft and Will can’t take it, he wishes suddenly and overwhelmingly for Hannibal’s violence again, for something he can fight against—

_“_ Tell me you love me, Will.”

It’s too much. He sobs into Hannibal’s shoulder, all pretense at resistance gone. “I do—I do—"

He doesn’t know which of them comes first, he hardly even registers that he’s coming, he just knows that he’s clinging to Hannibal and Hannibal is clinging to him and they are as conjoined as they had been when they emerged from the depths of the Atlantic so long ago—and Hannibal is  _crying._ There are salt marks on his cheek when he pulls Will close and whispers, “is it really that horrible? Loving me?"

“You could make me say anything in the heat of the moment. It doesn’t mean I care for you or ever will care for you. I just have nowhere else to go.” But he doesn’t mean it. The fight is gone from him and he curls against Hannibal instinctively, seeking his warmth. 

Hannibal lets him cry, holds him as his body shudders with sobs. 

“It hurts. Loving you. It hurts so  _much._ ” 

Hannibal strokes his hair and Will can feel rather than hear the tears choked back when Hannibal speaks. “I know, my darling. I know. It gets easier.” 

Will lifts his head, seeking Hannibal’s eyes. “Does it?”

Hannibal sighs and hugs him close. “I hope so."


End file.
